


he gets knocked down (but he gets up again)

by whiplash



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2011-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the selectman's question about Nathan's recovery meant that the head injury was actually quite serious? (Episode tag to "Friend or Faux" 2.08)</p>
            </blockquote>





	he gets knocked down (but he gets up again)

**Author's Note:**

> I have truckloads of gratitude for tempusborealis who did the beta work for me even though I'm a complete stranger <3

You throw up all over someone's shoes, bile mixed with sour coffee. The world spins dangerously as you reel from the mess. You're seconds away from face-planting when something pulls you not up as much as to the side.

Through the ringing in your ears you hear people talking. Someone tugs and yanks at your body until you're lying on your side, one leg tucked up and your head tilted at an angle where, if you throw up again, you won't suffocate.

You decide that, all in all, it's more kindness than one could expect from someone upon whose shoes you just retched. Gratitude, mixed with the kind of curiosity that had you taking apart your dad's police radio at the age of eight, has you contemplating whether or not opening your eyes would be a good idea.

Before you can make up your mind reality fades away.

xxx

Someone calls your name.

You peer up at the source of the sound, a little startled to find twin heads staring down at you. Damn copies, you think, only the heads don't look like they belong to Cornell Stamoran as much as to Dr. Pell from the emergency room.

Oh God, maybe it's _spreading_.

“Nathan?” Dr. Pell says, stretching out two, no make that three, hands to shine a bright light into your eyes. You blink up at them, amazed at the synchronized ease with which they're moving. Not only spreading, you decide as your eyes fall closed again, but now those fuckers seem to be _evolving_ too.

You hope Audrey has a plan.

xxx

When next you open your eyes, you know you're in the hospital.

The sharp, synthetic blend of smells has you sneezing and the sudden motion sets the room spinning. You focus your eyes on your own bare feet, sticking up on the other end of the bed, and after a series of shallow breaths the nausea abates.

The memory of what happened – the shoot-out at the Grey Gull, the car chase, that kid of Duke's, leaving Audrey with one of the copies – return with your sense of equilibrium and you stab your finger against the call button. In seconds a nurse pushes the door open, a professional smile on her face as she asks ridiculous questions. You do your best to answer while trying to get her to answer your questions; is Audrey all right? Is the kid? Is Duke?

The nurse knows nothing but how to do her job, but the first question answers itself when a familiar, tired-looking face peeks around the corner. The relieved smile on Audrey's face takes your breath away and you grin back at her like an idiot.

“You're not allowed to scare me like this,” she scolds, squeezing past the nurse to settle in the chair by the bed. You follow her with your eyes, the world kindly limiting itself to rocking rather than spinning this time, and find that her jacket's already folded up there along with a ratty copy of Cosmopolitan.

“You've been sitting here?” you ask, realizing too late how stupid you sound and hurriedly add; “You read Cosmo?”

She replies by rolling up the magazine and slapping your arm.

xxx

“You're kidding,” you tell the doctor, your voice somehow coming out more astonished than annoyed. “I don't even have a head ache.”

Dr. Pell opens her mouth, her face screwing up in that unhappy, somewhat insulted look doctors tend to get around you. As if somehow it's your fault that your body doesn't follow the laws of science.

“I get headaches,” you interrupt her, glaring over at the door where you know Audrey's bound to be eavesdropping. “More frequently than ever actually.”

For a moment the doctor looks curious.

“That might be psychosomatic,” she suggests. “Though I must say it would be highly-”

“The point being,” you grind out, “that I don't have one now. I feel fine.”

There's a snort from the doorway.

“Mr Wuornos-”

“Chief Wuornos,” you correct, feeling petty.

xxx

All right, so maybe pissing the doctor off hadn't been your best idea.

“Stop sulking,” Audrey says, not taking her eyes off the road for as much as a heart-beat. You ignore her, seeing as how the only other option would be to arrest her for grand theft auto and kidnapping. There was no reason you couldn't have driven yourself home.

You should never have let her move into that apartment, you decide. Her immunity to the Troubles be damned; clearly, prolonged exposure to Duke can corrupt even Audrey Parker. Before you know it, the two of them will be shipping mystery cargo or selling moonshine to underage kids.

A memory, hazy and unpleasant, suddenly strikes you and you stare out at the passing moon-lit landscape for a moment before marshalling enough courage to turn to Audrey.

“Did I throw up on...?”

From the way Audrey grins, you already know the answer.

xxx

“You owe me, Wuornos,” Duke greets you, stepping into your personal space as if you had sent him an engraved invitation. He worms his arm under yours and the only reason you let him is that it takes your weight off Audrey's slim shoulders.

“Ten dollars for a new pair of ratty sneakers?” you say, surprised at the slur in your voice. You fell asleep somewhere along the road and you woke up feeling... strangely heavy, as if your legs aren't quite up to carrying your weight.

Duke stares up at you from underneath a mop of hair that's extra messy, his eye-brows knitted together and his lips turned down at the corners.

“He all right?” he asks, directing the question not at you but Audrey.

“He signed himself out AMA,” she answers, ratting you out without a hint of hesitation and her betrayal has you frowning. “He has an appointment tomorrow morning with his family doctor, but until then I'd rather not-”

Her voice drifts off, or maybe you do because the next thing you know the two of them have their arms wrapped around you as they lug you up the stairs to Audrey's apartment. The couch is too short, but the blanket smells of Audrey and her hand is cool and soft against your face.

xxx

You wake up to find that breakfast has been served.

The coffee is weak and diluted with too much milk while the toast is burnt. Audrey's watching you from her end of the table, her hair adorably flat on one side and her face young and naked without makeup.

"It's not pancakes," she says, sounding somewhat apologetic. As if you usually begin your days being served pancake breakfasts and she's now somehow keeping you from your normal routine.

"It's perfect," you say, taking a big bite of your toast to prove it.

"You look better today," she says. "Still dizzy?"

"Only if I spin around in circles."

xxx

“C'mon,” you say, knowing better than to be rude to a medical professional (again). But you're still unable to let go of the feeling that the deck is stacked against you. “I feel fine. I feel great. I feel-”

“I'm happy to hear that, Nathan,” Dr. Fowler says, “and I certainly wasn't offering to write you a prescription for pain killers, though Lord knows anyone else in your shoes would be begging for it.”

You stare down at the papers littering the doctor's desk.

“Listen, son,” he continues, “that was one nasty knock on the head and those people up in the ER were right to want to keep you in for observation.”

“I had the CAT scan,” you point out, trying not to fidget in your seat. You're not eight years old anymore, you remind yourself. He can't tell on you to your parents and he won't be offering you a lollipop for good behaviour either.

“And I'm glad you did,” he says. “Now, I know you're not in any pain but that doesn't mean you're not sitting there telling me a big fat whopper when you claim you're feeling fine. You look like a raccoon, you smell like a skunk and from the way you keep swallowing I can tell you're working real hard on not hurling in my office.”

At that point, he nudges the trash can a bit closer to you.

“And don't get me wrong, Nathan, I appreciate that. That carpet's brand new.”

xxx

“So?” Audrey asks, putting away yet another glossy magazine meant for women more focused on their hair and nails than on saving the world.

“The rest of the week off work, next week on desk duty.”

She still has your car keys, but rather than hand them over to you like expected she insists on driving you home. The hope of a shower, a shave and a change in clothes has you shuffling into the passenger seat. You do kinda stink and out of the kindness of your heart you crank the window open to spare Audrey the worst of it.

“So,” you say, leaning your head back and closing your eyes, “what happened to Cornell and the copies?”

"After the original was shot, the... copies vanished."

“You shot him?” you ask, opening an eye to peer at her. Her lips twitch.

“His copy did. Officially, it was Duke though.”

“Saved by Duke Crocker," you mutter, closing your eyes." Lucky me."

xxx

You shower, shave and then wrap yourself up in your bathrobe before falling first into bed, then sleep. The restless kind where the wall between dream and reality is structurally unsound at best, non-existent at worst.

Your eyes flutter open a few times; a phone ringing in the distance and a neighbour who must be putting up paintings, the sound of hammer against nail so loud that your windows rattle.

In your dreams there's a man building a tomb out of bricks.

xxx

A hand on your shoulder has you sitting up, reaching for a gun that isn't there. It's getting dark outside, shadows gathering in the corners of the room and your stomach growls to remind that you've had nothing to eat all day but toast.

None of that matters though because right there, at the end of your bed, sits Duke Crocker, staring down at you with the strangest expression on his face.

“What?” you say, by which you mean _what are you doing in my home_ and _why are you looking at me like that_ and, also, _what did I do to deserve this kind of crap week anyway?_

“You have Audrey worried,” Duke answers, the look on his face easily identifiable as embarrassment now. “You didn't answer your phone. I tried knocking first but...”

“Audrey was worried so she called _you_?”

“She's all tied up at the station, the reverend's causing some problems and then there's the whole thing with Henry. You know, I-”

“She called _you_?”

xxx

You still can't wrap your head around the fact that Audrey called Duke, of all people, to check up on you. Stranger still, Duke did as she asked and came. Audrey's people-skills should definitely be registered as a deadly weapon. Sitting in the kitchen with Duke whipping up an omelette you put those concerns to the side. Lunch is lunch after all.

“Dinner,” Duke corrects, serving you straight from the frying pan. He pours two glasses of Coke before sitting down next to you at the table. It's strange having someone sitting in the second chair but you try not to let it bother you too much.

“Thanks,” you eventually remember to say.

 xxx

You fall asleep while Duke washes up, then wake up again when the couch dips.

Fuzzy-brained and gritty-eyed you just lay there as he settles into the corner, lifting your legs out of the way before dumping them back into his lap. It's surreal, more so than the dreams that had you tossing and turning earlier and as such you don't find yourself protesting.

Protesting this would be like objecting to never-ending hallways, running in syrup or endless falling. You can't object to what isn't possible in the first place.

Your old TV hums to life and Duke channel-surfs until he finds a show with a laugh track.

xxx

"Absolutely not," you say. "No way."

Audrey sips her coffee, then gestures for you to do the same. You peel back the lid first, stirring in a packet of sugar and making sure that the steam is gone. Better too cold, than too hot. That's one of the rules you live your life by, at least when it comes to liquids; be it coffee, tomato soup or just plain old showers.

Another one of your rules is _no nosy, addle-minded senior citizens in your home_.

"Just for lunch," Audrey says. "They'll bring you some food from the diner."

"I don't need a baby-sitter," you grind out, refusing to be bribed by take-away coffee and pastry for breakfast. You have cereal in the kitchen and the milk won't have gone off yet. You would have been fine without her morning visit.

"And a good thing that is," she says, grinning now, "I'd never trust those two with a baby."

xxx

"He looks pale."

"He looks fine, Vince. Stop hovering. Can't you see the man wants some space?"

"Fine? You call that fine? He's as pale as a ghost! And look at his eyes. He looks like a racoon!"

"Like you're one to talk about looks. Eat your sandwich and stop bothering him."

"Well, someone ought to eat, that's for sure. _He_ certainly isn't."

Closing your eyes you choke down another spoonful of soup.

xxx

Dr. Fowler gave you a list of things you're not, under any circumstances, supposed to do until you're "better". He could have saved a lot of trees by just summarizing it as _do nothing which might in any way be interpreted as useful_. For crying out loud, you're not even meant to be watching the TV.

Audrey reminds you of this when she shows up just after dark. She looks tired and harried in a way that speaks of paper-work and small town politics and the stab of guilt has you scrabbling out of the couch, muting the TV and offering her a choice of coffee or tea.

She pushes you back down again, her hand cool as she brushes it against your forehead.

"You look pale still," she says, mouth twisting unhappily.

"That's not what you said yesterday," you protest, trying not to wonder if she will touch you again. "Then you said I looked better."

"Better than you did sprawled out unconscious on the floor, yeah. Or hooked up to all those machines in the hospital." She smiles, maybe hoping to soften the words. "You still look a bit-"

"Like a racoon," you finish, giving up on the concept of dignity. "Yeah, so I've been told."

xxx

Saturday's the first day you manage to get out of bed without feeling either queasy or dizzy. You celebrate by changing the sheets in your bed and washing the plates in the sink. When you're done you're the kind of exhausted which normally comes after staying awake past the thirty-hour mark.

You collapse into the couch and the cheerful voices on the shopping channel keep you company until the door bell rings. It turns out to be Audrey, just like you had kinda suspected ( _hoped_ ). She's still wearing her office clothes after her half-day but rather than a badge and a gun she's carrying a DVD box and a frozen lasagne.

xxx

"Does this mean," you ask, half-way into season one of True Blood, "that you've watched those movies with useless-girl, sparkly-guy and shirtless-guy?"

"No," Audrey lies. Her face flushes a flattering pink and you grin as you call her on it. She throws a handful of popcorn at you, before adding; "Technically, no, anyway. The other Audrey did, not me. She's quite a fan of the supernatural."

"I never would have guessed," you dead-pan. Two episodes later Audrey suddenly starts laughing so hard that she spills the rest of her popcorn, but when you poke her with your foot she refuses to tell you what's so funny.

xxx

That night you dream of swamps and alligators.

And also of Audrey's laughter.

xxx

"Nate!" Duke says, peering over your shoulder as if he's expecting someone else to step in behind you. You let the door fall closed and step inside, pleased to find it empty except for a couple of tourists having lunch.

"Here to buy me a drink for saving your life the other day?" Duke continues as you focus on putting one foot in front of the other on your way to the bar. The room won't stop spinning and, though you have no way short of a mirror to know for sure, you're fairly sure your face must be tinged with green.

It's possible, you concede, that you weren't quite up to driving yet.

"If I wanted to buy a drink for someone who'd saved my life," you reply, hoping the way you cling on to the counter looks nonchalant rather than desperate, "I'd do it somewhere where the drinks weren't watered-down."

Duke gasps in mock-hurt, his fingers splayed over his chest.

xxx

You don't buy Duke a drink but when you order a beer he charges you for a whiskey and brings you a Coke which maybe amounts to the same thing. The soda is sweet and cold -- the later you tell from the condensation -- and you sip it carefully, pleased when it seems to settle your stomach.

As the hours pass more people show up at the Gull. Mostly tourists and youngsters but locals too; a few which knew your dad and a few which you guess can lay some claim on knowing you. You listen to a few complaints, nodding your head and smiling politely as you try to remember why you thought going out would be a good idea.

Around eight Audrey shows up, wearing clothes more suitable for the gym than for an evening out. She sits down next to you, waiting for Mr. Johnson to sum up his speech on the evils of loitering. When he finally leaves you both share a grin, before you realize something and squint at her.

"How did you know I was here?" you ask. After all, it's not paranoia if they're out to get you.

"Maybe if you wanted to hide, you shouldn't go to the bar right underneath my apartment?" she counters, her grin turning into a frown as she stares at the beer bottles left behind by the Harris brothers. "Please tell me Duke isn't actually serving you beer."

It's tempting to say yes, just to see what she'll do but you do kinda owe the guy so you shake your head and wave your empty coke bottle at her.

xxx

Audrey drops you off at home, your car still parked by the Grey Gull. You had tried to tell her that she didn't have to, but she hasn't been taking no as an answer since you got knocked out. It all makes you feel guilty without you being quite able to put your finger on why.

"I'm gonna be fine," you tell her as she walks you to the door. "You know that, right?"

She doesn't answer.

xxx

The next morning you take the bus back down to the harbour.

"You're back," Duke says, sounding less than pleased. "Seriously, man, while I’m not surprised by the fact that you're lacking a fulfilling private life, how hard can it be to take it easy for a few days? Am I gonna have to call Audrey on you again?"

"That's no way to run a bar," you point out. "I'm a paying customer."

"Yeah, well, a guy nursing a Coke through a whole evening isn't exactly gonna make me rich," Duke mutters. "Are you really meant to be driving anyway? Yesterday you could barely manage crossing the floor. "

He's polishing drinking glasses as he speaks, one eye on you and the other one on Henry. The kid's sweeping the floor, shoulders hunched and head down. Duke notices you looking and smiles in a way that clearly says _back off or else_.

"Audrey's making way too big a deal out of a knock to the head," you say, swallowing down your curiosity about the kid as well as the way Duke's acting around him. "What's up with that?"

Duke looks away, reaching out for another glass.

"When we first found you, we thought... or, well, I did anyway, you looked kinda dead," he says after a while. "Then they started talking about bashing your head in. Nasty way to go, that. And after, waiting for the ambulance, you wouldn't wake up and when you finally did you were still pretty out of it."

Suddenly remembering Duke's shoes you try your hand at the universal shrug for ' _sorry for puking on your footwear'_ and Duke rolls his own shoulders in a _'well, shit happens, what can you do'_ gesture.

You'll say this much for Duke Crocker; at least he's fluent in guy-speak.

xxx

You drop by the station later that day.

Audrey is by your desk, doing your job which makes you wish you'd picked up some donuts to go with the coffee. She looks up when you knock on the door, the lines between her eyes vanishing when you hold up her cup up for inspection.

"I love you," she says, as earnest and sincere as someone with a boyfriend abroad can be when speaking to a co-worker and friend. The sigh she makes when taking the first sip makes you weak in the knees and you allow yourself to sink down in the visitor's chair.

"You all right?" she asks, bright eyes missing nothing.

"I'm fine," you say for what must be the hundredth time. "Audrey, really, I'm-"

Her lips thin and she puts her coffee down as if what she has to say isn't something that can be said while drinking milked-down coffee with extra sugar. You fold your hands together in your lap and steel yourself.

"You get hurt a lot," she eventually says. "More so than anyone else I've ever met."

"It's not on purpose," you hear yourself say which is, yes, stupid but it's suddenly very important to you that she gets that. Important that she believes this about you when others never quite have.

"I know that," she says, "but you don't... you don't take it as seriously as you should either. You must know that?"

You shrug, unable to give her whatever it is she wants from you. She stares at you for a long moment, pissed-off and beautiful and all around amazing, before her shoulders sink and her lips turn up at the corners.

"Just don't do it again," she says and you think maybe this means you've been forgiven. Or maybe she's forgiven herself. Who knows what goes on in Audrey Parker's mind?

"And don't come back here until next week," she adds.

"Until next week," you agree.


End file.
